


Necessary Measures

by DontDissEinstein



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John is a Very Good Doctor, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, platonic bubble bath sharing........so far
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-12 22:45:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7952182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DontDissEinstein/pseuds/DontDissEinstein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has a concussion and John has to do something about it. Obviously this results in them sharing a bath. Obviously.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Necessary Measures

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Atiki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atiki/gifts).



> I wrote this as a ficlet on my tumblr way back in March when Atiki requested platonic bubble bath sharing... so I kinda just took that as a prompt and because I am apparently trash and still can't resist the hurt/comfort trope, we get John in doctor-mode as well.

John walks into 221B after Sherlock and watches 6 feet of exhausted, bloody detective flop face-first onto the couch.

“Oh no you don’t,” says John, immediately taking Sherlock by the shoulder and forcing him to roll over. “You can’t sleep for another four hours, doctor’s orders.”

Sherlock blinks slowly at him through several layers of blood and grime. “I know how concussions work, John,” he says, but the scorn in his voice sounds more like exhaustion.

“Look,” says John, thinking on his feet, “let’s get you cleaned up, that’ll pass some of the time.” He looks at his watch: a quarter past midnight. They’re in for a long night.

Grunting slightly with the effort, John manages to half-walk, half-carry his boneless and unusually compliant flatmate into the bathroom. He deposits him on the edge of the bath and hopes that Sherlock will have the presence of mind to lean against the tiled wall instead of falling straight into the tub.

John turns on the taps, feeling the temperature. He glances sideways and sees that Sherlock’s eyes have drifted closed. “Sherlock,” he warns in his best Doctor Watson voice.

The detective grunts, eyes still closed.

“Come on, up,” says John. “Can you manage your clothes?” Hands under Sherlock’s arms, he half-lifts him from the edge of the bath before Sherlock staggers to his feet.

“Don’t baby me, John, I can manage,” he mutters, and starts on his buttons, swaying only slightly on the spot.

Judging it safe to turn his back for the moment, John rummages in the bathroom cabinet and pulls out a First Aid kit and a large bottle of bubble bath. Sherlock has managed to divest himself of his stained purple shirt by the time John has set the bath to foaming and unpacked half of the First Aid kit by the sink.

There is a sigh behind him. John turns and gets an eyeful of pale, shivering detective.

“No need to stand around, you can get in,” says John, perhaps a little more gruffly than usual. “And don’t you dare slip and hit your head again,” he adds, watching Sherlock put one foot in the tub.

Sherlock tries to give him a withering look and of course promptly wobbles dangerously.

 _Army reflexes still alright then_ , thinks John as he seizes Sherlock by the arms to steady him. John manoeuvres him carefully into the bath, and Sherlock groans. John looks up quickly, scanning Sherlock’s face for signs of discomfort. “Alright?”

Sherlock nods. “Remind me to have you run me a bath more often,” he says softly, and smiles an exhausted smile.

John busies himself with the First Aid kit.

* * *

It takes at least three quarters of an hour before John is satisfied that Sherlock’s various scrapes and bruises are sanitary and non-life-threatening. He suspects Sherlock might have fractured something in his right hand, but there’s nothing for it but to wait until the morning to get it x-rayed. Once he’s picked the grit out of his own raw knuckles he packs the First Aid kit away and sighs.

Sherlock is running his fingers through the remaining bubbles, probably to have anything to do rather than think about sleep. “What are you sighing about,” he says without inflection, eyes still focussed on the surface of the water.

John half-smiles. “I was sort of wishing we could go more than three months at a time without a case like this.”

“I solved it,” says Sherlock with as much indignation as he can muster.

“Yeah, of course you solved it, I just wish you’d done it from more of a safe distance. And you’ve got blood and shit all through your hair again.”

Sherlock sags in the water. “Please tell me you don’t mean _shit_ literally.” He reaches for the shampoo with his right hand, winces, and knocks it into the water.

John sighs again, looks at his watch. Nearly two o' clock. “Don’t even think about it. Add some more hot and budge over.”

John shucks his shirt and turns around to find Sherlock looking at him like he’s trying very hard to focus. “You hurt your shoulder when the trafficker broke my collarbone in December,” says Sherlock slowly.

“Brilliant deduction, Sherlock,” says John with a hint of sarcasm, pulling at his trousers. “The way I remember it, you broke your own collarbone chasing that bloke through the bloody country.”

In truth, reaching over the edge of the bath to reach his too-tall flatmate’s muddy scalp had given John spasms in his shoulder for days afterward; Sherlock had quickly insisted that he was capable of washing his own hair one-handed, shattered collarbone notwithstanding. John had given in then, as Sherlock hadn't been concussed that time. No getting around it now, though. _It's this or stumbling around with god-knows-what in your hair_ , John thinks.  _It's a necessary measure._

Having shed the rest of his clothes, John carefully steps into the bath and sits down facing Sherlock, sighing at the welcome warmth. Their knees and ankles bump together but it’s fine, it’s all fine. The bubbles, renewed by the extra water, provide a modicum of modesty. John reaches a hand beneath them to search for the fallen shampoo bottle and brushes Sherlock’s thigh by accident on the way.

John looks up, searching for shock or discomfort on Sherlock’s face, but his eyes are closed.

“Oi, no sleeping,” says John, worried, thinking about the concussion again. He looks at the clock: ten past two.

“I’m awake,” says Sherlock, and holds out the shampoo bottle with his left hand.

So John washes Sherlock’s hair for him, and the only sound is the quiet popping of bubbles and the occasional hum of contentment from Sherlock.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm leaving the door open for a NSFW chapter 2, depending...


End file.
